Do not say anything to me!
But I could not hold back my tears.
Yandex to me today –
The eighth died in Germany.
He did not climb into the loop, did not sit on the heroin,
And he did not hold the armor cold at the helmet.
He had no swine fever or angina.
The eighth life is short.
He predicted everything in the championship.
He had great secrets.
The bookmakers hanged them all, their mother,
The sounds of African vuvuzeles.
He predicted the collapse of Lionel Messi.
And where it will eventually fly out.
Don’t worry, just two hundred!
The life of eight is short.
He predicted – virtually the Messiah –
Uruguay goes to the semi-finals.
Russia will not enter South Africa.
(Here, indeed, without him everyone knew everything.)
Oh, live to live for him – he would have predicted, I see
Victory in the Champions League CSKA
At the stadium somewhere in Paris.
The eighth life is short.
So sleep quietly where you are buried.
(I hope you’re not cut into salad.)
You were blue of blood.
So eight-legged Paul - Vivat!
Add another two hundred.
No more rhythm. The line ends.
Remember how I hit Inista?
The eighth life is short. c) Senya